


How We Learn

by hauntedd



Category: Roswell (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dominance, F/M, Mind Control, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 21:35:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/614597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hauntedd/pseuds/hauntedd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alex during those months in <i>Sweden</i> and the blondes in his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How We Learn

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired completely by the video for Julian Plenti’s “Games for Days” which I could watch endlessly. PS. Thank you Court, Lis and Tammi for looking over parts of it/listening to me whine about it.

In his clearer moments, his world rights itself and he remembers the build up. She’s been groomed for this, and, he supposes, he has as well. The fresh faced innocent who is anything but, and the willing means to her ends. It’s a role he’s played for years, but never with the same eagerness he feels when he’s in her presence, a good boy always ready to please.

He wonders if it’s real or a byproduct of whatever this is. Not that he cares, not anymore.

His will was broken first, a series of blows delivered by twinkling eyes and a playful smile. In private, of course, when she became something more than she ever was in public. Always in private.

 _Our little secret_. He can hear the purr in her voice, even now, when her name shifts between three personas and the world blurs. Most of the last few months live in shadows of buildings built up from photographs and stories of lives unlived.

But he has little desire to do anything but type away, never certain of her objective, beyond the obvious, and he finds it easier that way. She’s slowly redefining him from the inside out, making him fit her purpose, and Alex has always been one to appreciate the journey more than the destination.

She’s promised that she won’t forget this, even if he will, that there’s more than just the book for him. She’s said other things over the months, and he used to appreciate the flattery, the idea that someone saw _him_ now he values the blankness of it all. It’s all about rebirth every time she comes to visit and they come together and apart. Never equal, never the same, but she praises his progress, says he’s even better than she imagined.

It doesn’t bother him that he’s begun to forget his own name.

Nothing matters except her smile, which she shares more often these days. While he’s unsure if it’s just an image from a life unlived, it’s more real than the Thai food and scribbles that nip at the back of his consciousness.

~*~

Her visits grow further apart, and his memory is even fuzzier these days. Instead of glimpses into timelines, Alex is lucky if he remembers threading his hands through blonde hair as the symbols straighten and solidify into text that flows from his fingertips.

The project is nearly complete and he’s completely become something else in the process. She calls for updates in that way she does and he shivers at the sound, as if it’s her breath blowing warm puffs of air on bare skin. Like she used to, before she called herself a distraction and he agreed.

He always agrees.

His thoughts are darker, when he manages more than blind devotion, and he likes the feeling. His smiles grow to smirks and his gaze is darker, more calculating. People don’t even bother to talk to him anymore, so he spends more time focused on her.

She said, she _promised_ , he just had to finish this and she was his. What he didn’t bother to say was that she’s never been his, not really, but he’s always been hers.

That’s always been understood. And he’s never been one to question, especially not her. She’s ensured that and so he lets the blankness wash over him, embracing whatever she wants him to become.

It’s certainly better than what he is.

~*~

It’s complete and compartmentalized, however he can’t help but wonder if there’s a part of him that’s rebelling, some nascent shred of his weak former self under whatever this is and his fists clench at the thought.

There can’t be any resistance or obstacle. The plan was perfect from the start, a thing of art, really, and he’s a willing party. His wants are hers, ultimately, and it’s this symbiotic relationship that has allowed him to evolve into what they both want. His thoughts are his own, even if they’re hers, because he’s _allowed_ it and he embraces the darkness that these things bring.

He can’t remember anything else, and he doesn’t want to—she’s referred to him as her _masterpiece_ in passing and he smirks at the reference. She’s his Queen of Hearts and he knows better than to cross her.

He values his head too much, it’s filled with thoughts of _her_.

The concern lingers in the shadows and he contemplates writing it down, but he’s not sure he can find a pen. It’s been weeks of nothing but code and symbols, Thai food and dedication, all building up to this moment.

She’s coming.

The door opens and she slides through, black hair and sunglasses masking her features and he forgets the unimportant concern. She is more important, she’s always more important, and it’s impossible for anything else to command his attention when she’s in the room.

His pulse quickens as she unbuttons her coat, red heels the only hint of color in an otherwise dark outfit and Alex takes in the expanse of cream flesh left uncovered by the skimpy black dress.

She always did know how to make an entrance. 

He leans back in his chair as she makes her way toward him, rubbing fingers through her hair as she shreds the wig and curls spill through—darkness and light twisting together into shades of grey.

She stares past him and into a mirror, correcting makeup and smudging color into patterns. Satisfied, she leans against the doorway and he presses a thumb to the corner of his mouth dragging it languishingly slow against the sensitive skin. Desire is painted plainly on his face as she meets his eyes with a smirk, her weight shifting from one side to the other as the dress rises upward ever so slightly.

“What am I calling you tonight?” he questions in a monotone, his voice sounding more ominous than he’s used to and he grips at her shoulders, running cracked palms down her arms, desperate to feel her against him.

“Tess,” she breathes against him, warm and willing with a bit of mystery lingering on the periphery of her gaze. He raises an eyebrow at that—it’s always Leanna when they’re like this, always like this, and sometimes she’ll bring in an accessory to be the starring role.

But before he can voice his thoughts she presses her fingers against his mouth and smirks dangerously up at him, dark liner smudged and striking. “I said I’d be yours when you were done. And here we are. I have the book and a vessel. Isn’t that right, Khivar?”

“Alex,” he corrects, lowering his lips to her neck, pressing against the soft skin and cupping her breast, rolling flesh between his fingers as she lets out a moan and his eyes darken at the sound. 

“Whatever you say, Alex,” she agrees, her hips moving against him, the slinky fabric doing little to serve as a barrier between them. She turns and he grips her cheeks, pulling her in, crashing his lips against hers and he can sense the wild grin peak out from the corners of her mouth as she begins her assault, taking control in the moment.

He yields easily, and the darkness begins to creep in as practiced hands make quick work of their clothing. The last thing he hears is her whisper, “it won’t matter whose name I scream tonight. Alex doesn’t live here anymore.”

She’s right, of course. She’s always right.


End file.
